by Chukwudi George Ozalla
Death came again, quietly, yet with a force that shattered the calm of my December. It crept in softly, leaving behind a hollow ache that words struggle to contain. This month has tested me deeply. In the evening of 20th December, 2025, I lost my paternal uncle, Blessed IKD Ozalla, and we laid him to rest the following day at Nibo. Even as I tried to steady my heart, sad news of death returned with another merciless blow, a sister-in-law from Enugu-Ukwu also died yesterday.
The news of your passing, Obiozor Francisca Okafor, struck me like a thunderbolt. It was my elder sister, Nneka, your paddy as well, who delivered the heartbreaking message over the phone. I never knew. I never imagined you carried any health challenge. The shock still lingers, heavy and surreal, as though the world paused for a moment. My hands feel heavy even to call your phone number. My heart aches with sadness that words cannot fully express.
My mind drifts back to the eerie silence death leaves behind, that pause where the heart struggles to accept the impossible. I find myself wandering through memories of our childhood, clinging to them as though they might somehow bring you back. I remember how your school uniform sat neatly on you, how you walked with that gentle, graceful gait, your carriage radiating quiet confidence and dignity. Your laughter was free, your smiles warm, your innocent looks spoke more deeply than words ever could. I recall your voice, calm yet spirited, the kind that could brighten a space without effort. I remember our small conversations, the teasing, the shared talks, the way you noticed when someone was hurting, the way you listened, the way your presence alone brought reassurance. These are the things death cannot take away. They now live in memory, even as the absence they leave behind cuts deeply.
I recall your soothing, consolatory words that carried me when I lost both my mother and father. I also remember when we last spoke, exchanging messages, laughing over memories that time could not erase. You told me about your mother’s passing, and I promised to come during the funeral. I truly meant it, but life held me back. We even discussed the death of our friend, Martha Odogwu, mourning together, unaware that fate had already drawn its own cruel conclusion. Death is merciless in its timing, unannounced and unforgiving.
This season reopens wounds long scarred but never healed. I recall with deep nostalgia that on Sunday, the 3rd of December, 2017, I lost my beloved mother, Mrs. Nkiruka Regina Ozalla, née Obiozor. You bore her maiden name, and that bond drew you even closer in our childhood days. Each time your name was spoken, it echoed memories of her, of home, of love, of all that once felt safe and whole. In losing you, that familiar ache returns, layered now with fresh grief.
As you are to be laid to rest on the 27th of December, 2025, in your husband’s compound at Onitsha, Obior, I shall be there to bid you goodbye. That is the final honour I owe our friendship.
May God grant strength and comfort to your husband, your children, and your siblings, relations, friends, associates, and sympathisers. May He surround them with peace in this season of unbearable loss. Sleep gently, my great friend. Your beauty, your grace, your dignity, your laughter, and your gentle spirit remain alive in memory, untouched by death.
Obior! Nnukwu Ada Onitsha Ado n’idu, jee nke oma!
Obior, okwulu okaa, jee ofuma!
Obior, Nne m ochie!
Obior, manarisia, adieu!
Your life spoke quietly but powerfully. Your memory will remain a light in dark moments, a presence of kindness, grace, and friendship. You are gone from sight, but never from the heart. Rest well, dear Obior!
Publisher and Editor-in-Chief, NEWSCOUNT
